Just a Dream
by griffindork93
Summary: Flying brooms, dragons, and people who can turn into animals don't exist, because magic isn't real. It was just a dream, wasn't it? Harry wakes up from a dream about bright green lights and receives a letter from Hogwarts. Magic is real after all.
1. Chapter 1

**Alright. This is my first story in this fandom. There are days where I reread the thirty-fourth chapter and imagine the whole series was one fantastical dream imagined by a lonely boy locked in the cupboard under the stairs. I hope this story will be well received. **

**Also, Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Not me.**

* * *

Harry clapped his hands to his mouth to stifle a gasp. He did not want to wake his Uncle.

Thin shoulders heaving, he reached blindly above his head for the fraying string attached to his cupboard's light bulb. With a faint click, dim light flood the cupboard under the stairs that served as his bedroom. The light flickered several times before staying lit.

No longer enclosed in darkness, it was easier for the boy to not think about his dream.

It was not the first time Harry had dreamed about the eerie green light, but he had never done it in such detail.

He had been older in his dream. Seventeen. And fighting against a man who called himself . . . Harry couldn't remember. It was Vol something or other. His dream self had walked into a dark forest at a castle, voluntarily going to his death at the hands of that green light. He remembered that much at least.

Harry had encountered that green light before. It was before he had come to live with the Dursleys.

With a noiselessness developed from years of practice, the ten year old boy dressed, in clothes four times his size, and slipped out of the cupboard.

His relatives abhorred any reminders that they were forced to take in their freak of a nephew, so it was essential that Harry keep quiet. They put him out of the way, by giving him the tiny cupboard under the stairs as a bedroom and dressing him in his overweight cousin's hand me downs.

The only times the Dursleys were glad to have him around was when there were chores that needed to be done.

His Uncle Vernon was the worst of them. The obese man was astonishingly observant when it came to his unwanted nephew. Harry never really had to do much of anything to draw the man's ire. Simply being alive was enough to make him angry.

But that anger was nothing compared to his Uncle's wrath when strange things happened around him. Harry couldn't explain how these things would happen, but like the incident on Dudley's birthday, Harry was to blame when weird things, like vanishing glasses for snake exhibits, occurred.

Given Vernon's proclivity for unlooping his belt when past his anger threshold, Harry tried to give his relatives what they wanted.

It was easier said than done, though. Dudley took perverse pleasure in taunting Harry about his lack of parents and generally doing everything in his power to get him in trouble. If Vernon had eagle eyes when it came to Harry's misdeeds, he was blind as a bat when it concerned his own flesh and blood.

Silence was one of the key rules for surviving at Number Four Privet Drive. "Don't ask questions," his Aunt Petunia was always saying.

Other rules included staying out of his relatives' way. Harry would love to achieve this, but his Aunt was always screaming for him to vacuum or weed the garden. Another was doing Dudley's homework so he would pass school while at the same time making sure to do worse on his own assignments. Harry hated having to appear stupid in school where he was already teased for his baggy clothes and ugly round glasses. He actually liked cooking, so making all the meals for the entire family was enjoyable. Even if he wasn't included, for Harry was only allowed to eat after Vernon and Dudley had had their fill. But he had become rather skilled small bites while he was preparing the food.

Some days, the tiny portions he stole were the only times he'd eat that day. Harry secreted away food to his cupboard whenever possible, but only when he knew the Dursleys wouldn't notice it was missing.

The brunette hurried into the kitchen. He pulled down three frying pans hanging on the rack above the oven and set them on the range, twisting the nobs all the way to the left to ignite the flames and get them heating. He glanced wistfully at the microwave on the counter and grabbed a fourth frying pan. Dudley had thrown a massive fit the last time Harry had served bacon that had been nuked. On that occasion, his fat cousin had overturned the table. Vernon had blistered his hands in hot oil in retaliation and snarled an order to never put their bacon in the microwave again. He had to cook breakfast again with his hands burnt.

He started some oil in the first pan for sausages, filled a filter with Uncle Vernon's plain coffee and let that start brewing, then turned to the refrigerator to grab eggs and milk to start the batter coating bread for French toast. The rest of the eggs he cracked into a second pan to make scrambled eggs.

Harry added an excessive amount of cinnamon to his egg and milk mixture and began soaking and frying the French toast. He whirled about the kitchen, setting the table with plates and utensils, piling on food as it finished cooking. He finally started on the bacon when the rest of breakfast was almost done, knowing that the scent of sizzling bacon would wake his uncle and cousin, both of which would be very unhappy if there was no food on their plates when they dragged themselves downstairs.

He was just sliding several slices of crispy bacon onto his uncle's loaded plate when the man stomped into the room. "Where's my coffee, boy?" he snapped.

"Coming, Uncle Vernon," answered Harry.

"Well, hurry up, then!"

Dudley and Aunt Petunia soon made their way down, the former sitting heavily in his chair and shoving forkfuls of sausages drenched in ketchup and peanut butter into his mouth.

Petunia looked distastefully down her nose at him. "There's a rack of lamb on the bottom shelf for dinner," she sniffed. It was a wonder to Harry that both his cousin and uncle hadn't suffered a heart attack yet.

"Don't just stand there, boy. Go fetch the mail."

'I'm not a bloody dog,' Harry thought. There was a small stack of letters on the doormat and he looked through them curiously.

It was mostly bills and a post card from Uncle Vernon's horrible sister, except for the last letter. That one was for him.

Green eyes widened, stunned. He had never received a letter in is life. Who would be writing to him?

_Mr. H. Potter  
The Cupboard under the Stairs  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald green ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

Harry stared down at the letter in his hands, feeling a sense of déjà vu. This letter was familiar. He had seen it before but he couldn't place where.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing? Checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry's head snapped up in surprise. This was exactly how his dream had started, with him receiving a letter from a school for magic.

"Hogwarts," he recalled in a whisper, eyes locked on the crest sealing the letter. Could it be real? Did magic really exist? And he was a wizard?

The boy startled as his uncle yelled once more. He scurried back into the kitchen, mail clenched tightly in one hand. On the way, he slid his letter through the slats of the metal grate on his cupboard door.

The rest of the day, his mind was consumed with thoughts of that letter. He didn't think it could be real. It had to be a hoax, didn't it? Because magic wasn't real. It was just a dream.

But a small part of Harry wanted it to be true, because his dream was full of adventure and excitement and attending a school for magic meant getting away from the Dursleys.

* * *

Later, in the safety of his bedroom after his relatives had retired for the night, Harry carefully broke the seal and removed the pages inside.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of _WITCHCRAFT _and _WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
(_Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Amazement filled Harry. His dream was becoming reality. The proof was in his hands; an acceptance letter to a school for magic. He was a wizard.

He quickly read through the list of school supplies, taking note of the textbooks and other equipment he would need. Then he turned the supply list over so he could write on the reverse side. Harry needed to make a list of everything he could remember from his dream.

In the end, it wasn't much. The list read:

-red and gold tie  
-a mirror with an unintelligible inscription  
-a red stone  
-some blonde git that dressed like a ponce  
-snakes  
-black hooded creatures that reminded him of Ringwraiths from the Lord of the Rings series he had read  
-a portkey (whatever the hell that was)  
-lots of dragons  
-a creepy graveyard  
-a secret army of students  
-the words _I must not tell lies  
-_a potions book  
-two identical lockets  
-camping  
-that bright green light speeding towards him

It wasn't a lot of detail. Harry knew he had dreamt of more than the fifteen items on his list, but he couldn't for the life of him remember any more than that. He wished he could remember more, because the majority of his list appeared to be trivial and inconsequential details. The only two things that concerned him was the possibility of encountering dragons and the green light that was a foremost presence in a lot of his dreams.

He supposed the rest of the list would make sense in context.

His only problem right now was getting his hands on an owl so he could reply, and ask for assistance in getting his school things. There certainly wasn't any place in London where he could buy cauldrons and wands.

* * *

Harry woke early the next morning, before the sun. He was surprised to find three more letters addressed to him on the doormat, identical to the one he had opened yesterday. Would Hogwarts continue to send letters until he sent them confirmation?

He dropped the letters and hurriedly unbolted the door. If there were more letters here, there must have been owls that delivered them. He hoped to catch one still outside Number 4.

His hunch was right. On the street sign reading Privet Drive perched a tawny owl. Yellow eyes pierced, full of intelligence. Feeling foolish, but unable to think of any way to know if this owl was a post owl, Harry asked, "Are you from Hogwarts?"

Large eyes blinked at him, and the owl hooted. Harry took that as a yes. "Would you deliver a letter for me?"

The owl hooted again. Harry thanked the bird as he ran back to his cupboard to draft a letter to Professor McGonagall.

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_

_I would very much like to attend Hogwarts. I have never heard of magic before and was wondering if it would be possible for you to send directions to the store where I can find the items on the supply list?_

_Thank you, _

_Harry Potter_

Harry reread it, hoping it sounded professional and not like a little kid was writing it. He took the letter to the owl, which clutched it in its talons, and gave it instructions to give it to Professor McGonagall. The bird gave one last hoot of acknowledgement and took flight.

The brunette watch as the owl soared away, eyes not leaving its figure until the bird was a dark speck in the sky. The arrival of the milkman, collecting the empty milk bottles and dropping off filled ones, meant Harry had to get started on breakfast.

* * *

Thousands of miles away from Surrey, hidden in the hills of Scotland, stood a magnificent castle. It was empty at the moment, of bustling students, but the professors remained during the summer months.

Professor Minerva McGonagall frowned, lips thinning, as she read the short letter she had just received. As Deputy Headmistress, sending out the Hogwarts letters was her responsibility. She made personal visits to the potential Muggle-born student in order to explain to their parents and demonstrate a little magic so they did not think the letter to be a trick.

She had known Harry Potter lived with his Muggle relatives, having been present on Privet Drive the regretful night when Albus Dumbledore placed him in their care. Albus had written a letter, tucked into Harry's blanket, so that Lily's sister could explain the truth when it came time for the boy to attend Hogwarts.

Evidently, she had not done so. That bad feeling Minvera had had about the Dursleys returned. She had told Albus they were the worse sort of Muggles imaginable.

She stood briskly, donning an emerald green cloak. It was too late to be calling upon the Dursley household, but she could wait outside in her cat form until a more decent hour.

Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, could not come to school in September ignorant of who he was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Harry Potter still belongs to J. K Rowling. I'm just borrowing her characters and world and messing with them a little. And please go to my profile to vote on which house you want to see Harry in. **

* * *

"Minerva! What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

Professor Minerva McGonagall stepped smoothly out of the fireplace, brushing soot off her cloak as she turned to face the owner of the house. The green flames, the only source of light in the room, faded as the magical fire died.

The Transfiguration professor withdrew her wand from the inner pocket of her robe. With a flick of her wrist light flooded the room. She slipped the piece of wood back into the folds of her cloak before addressing the other woman.

The usual hairnet that covered her grizzled gray hair was missing and her hair was more mussed and fly away looking than normal. Minerva assumed the woman had dashed out of bed to see who was coming through her Floo. It also explained the tartan slippers on her feet.

If it was possible, Minerva would have Apparated to Number 4 Privet Drive, but the protective wards around Harry's residence prevented Apparition. There were certainly other methods of travel, but none that would have gotten her to her destination as quickly. So Minerva took her next best option, Flooing to the house of Arabella Figg, which was only a few streets away from Privet Drive.

"Good evening, Arabella. I came to check on Mr. Potter."

"C-ch-check on young Harry? What for? I assure you, the boy's perfectly fine," Arabella said with a huff.

Minerva pursed her lips at the display of misplaced pride. Judging from the letter she had just received from the boy, she doubted Harry was as fine as Arabella proclaimed. The Dursleys had clearly not done as Dumbledore asked, informing their nephew of his magical heritage. Added to what she had personally seen of them the day she and Albus Dumbledore had left him on the doorstep as a baby, a decision Minerva had been vehemently against but could not convince Albus otherwise, she did not believe the Dursleys had treated Harry as their son like Albus had asked of them.

But Minerva soothed the Squib's ruffled feathers, stating that she was sure Harry was fine and that she wished to speak to the boy personally about his admittance to Hogwarts because there was only so much his relatives, as Muggles, could tell him about the wizarding world.

Arabella's eyes shined with understanding, accepting Minerva's explanation at face value. "Alright then, Professor. Do you need me to show you the way?"

"That will not be necessary, Arabella. I am sorry to have disturbed you so late."

Arabella's hair flew from side to side as she shook her head. "Oh, it's not a problem at all. Not at all."

"I will see myself out. I apologize for troubling you as such a late hour." With that said, Minerva walked briskly out of the living, decked out with Afghans and pictures of all the cats she bred, and into the cool night air.

Down Wisteria Walk and through an alley of Magnolia Crescent put her on Magnolia Road, which connected directly to Privet Drive, she passed by one identical tan bricked house after another. Plain, boring houses that showed no hint of imagination or individualization.

Minerva transformed into her Animagus form, a grey Tabby cat with a pattern of darker grey stripes. As a feline, she slinked through the shadows, edging around the pools of light from the lamp posts, and nimbly leapt atop the low garden wall in front of Number 4.

She settled herself comfortably, prepared for a long night of watching over the Dursley residence once more. The night passed quietly, and when the sun's first rays, varying shades of orange, yellow, red, raced across the sky, turning the dark purple to increasingly lighter shades of blue, Minerva jumped from her place on the stone wall, transforming as she went, and land on two human feet.

Knuckles rapped on the dark wooden door. It was rather early to be receiving calls, but Minerva knew, from a previous stint watching the same house, that Mr. Dursley started his day extremely early. And it was rather urgent that she corrected this situation.

Minerva blinked in surprise at the untidy boy, messy hair and baggy, overlarge clothes, who opened the door, two pairs of green eyes clashing. Unconsciously, her eyes drifted up to the infamous scar on his forehead.

"Can I help you?"

"Good morning, Mr. Potter. May I come in?" she questioned, forgiving the boy for gawking.

* * *

Harry didn't want to get out of bed that morning, and seeing how his Aunt had locked him in his cupboard, meaning he was off the hook for preparing breakfast, the idea of just sleeping really appealed to him.

It was actually a mercy on his Aunt's part, after the thrashing her husband had given him the day before. Harry, so preoccupied with sending his letter to Professor McGonagall, had gotten a late start on breakfast, which meant Uncle Vernon would be late to work. Aunt Petunia had swung a heavy cast iron pan at him. Normally, Harry would have ducked out of the way. This time he couldn't because she had done it in view of his uncle. He knew from experience that his uncle's punishment would be worse than anything Petunia dished out.

Thin as she was, the swing had no weight behind it. It knocked Harry off balance, sending him to his hands and knees on the tiled floor, and would probably leave behind a good sized bump, but that was all. He hadn't burst any blood vessels in his eyes, gotten double vision, or been knocked unconscious, so all in all, Harry thought he had gotten off lightly.

Then Uncle Vernon had seen the other Hogwarts letters left on the doormat as he rushed out the door. He couldn't do anything to Harry at the time, but when he returned home from work Harry received his worst ever whipping.

His back still burned. He could feel every welt the belt left behind as the leather strap sliced into his back. Then he had been tossed in his cupboard, with no dinner of course. The blood had long since dried, welding his shirt to his skin, and it would bleed anew when removed the rags he had to wear.

But Harry was used to the pain. Uncle Vernon took the belt to him any time something "freaky," which the almost eleven year old now knew to be his magic, happened. It certainly hurt more this time, since the reptile house incident was only last weekend.

But his happy bubble burst at the sound of someone knocking on the door. At first, he considered ignoring it. It was too early for the post man, and he only ever knocked when he delivered a package, which the Dursleys rarely ever got. Aunt Petunia didn't trust mail order service, preferring to go out and buy her present for her precious Dinky Diddydums and not having to wait for it to arrive all banged up from poor handling.

And it couldn't be anybody on Privet Drive or the surrounding streets because, by some unwritten rule of propriety, everybody minded their own business ten o'clock.

But then the person knocked again, more forcefully this time, so Harry dragged himself into a sitting position, wincing as the movement stretched the skin on his back. Feeling around on the shelves for a mini screwdriver he had secreted away, Harry made shoved it where the grate fitted into the door and wiggled.

On one of the rare occasions the Dursleys left him alone in the house and not with batty Mrs. Figg when they went out, and not locked in his cupboard under the stairs, Harry had borrowed his Aunt's nail filer so that he could smooth the thread of the screws holding the grate in place. With the ridge sanded down partly, the screws stayed in place well enough to convince the Dursleys that it hadn't been tampered with.

But the smooth strip on each screw meant their strength was weakened, so the metal grate popped out of place with little effort and swung down. Harry reached an arm through. He found the lock easily, lifting the pin up and sliding it back. He pushed the cupboard door open wide enough for him to slip out.

He opened the door before the person on the other side could knock again. If they kept making a racket one of the Dursleys was bound to wake up. It was ridiculous that someone would be at the door at this hour.

It was a woman, who was startled to see him answer the door if the shock in her eyes was anything to go by. Harry's first impression; she was not somebody he wanted to cross.

She was tall. Taller than Aunt Petunia and dressed in emerald green robes of all things which would have his Aunt screeching about how they were unnatural. It was the stern look on her face that prevented him from snapping about the earliness of her visit.

"Can I help you?" he asked nervously.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," the unnamed woman responded. "May I come in?"

He nodded dumbly. How had she known his name? He didn't realize he was standing in her way until she arched one sharp eyebrow. He hurriedly stepped to the side and followed after her as she walked gracefully into the living room.

The Dursleys' living room was exactly like the rest of the house. Sparkling clean from hours of labor on his part. The patterned upholstery of the furniture was gaudy and clashed with the curtains Aunt Petunia had him hang. She had only bought them because it was expected to have curtains in the living room. She was much too nosy to ever consider drawing them closed. The photographs of Dudley on the fireplace mantle flaunted their love for their son. If not for the personal touches, the Dursleys' living room could have been a showroom.

The green clad woman settled into Uncle Vernon's cushy armchair. Harry took a set opposite, feeling rather like the time he had been called into the principal's office after being found on the roof of the school.

"My name is Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor house at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My subject is Transfiguration; a branch of magic that focuses on the alteration of the form or appearance of an object."

Harry stared, clueless, as the now named Professor McGonagall finished her introduction speech. 'Speaking of ridiculous,' he thought amusedly, he couldn't comprehend half the words she said.

He said the only thing he could. "You're from Hogwarts?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter. You sent a letter asking for assistance. I thought it best to explain in person. If you would please fetch your Aunt and Uncle—"

"That won't be necessary, Professor."

Harry met her green eyes for a second time. The intelligence there was easy to see. Professor McGonagall was curious about his response but did not insist he go and wake his relatives.

"If you are certain." Harry nodded empathetically. "Very well. Mr. Potter, as you have learned, you are a wizard. Hogwarts is the best establishment of magical learning in Great Britain. And like your parents before you, you have been offered at place at our school."

"You knew my parents?" Harry hadn't meant to interrupt, but he couldn't pass up the chance to ask this woman about them. His Aunt and Uncle told him that his father was a no good lay about, a drunk, and that his mother was no better. But, if they were wizards like him. Well, Harry wouldn't put it past his relatives to lie about his parents as another way to keep him from knowing about his magic.

At his softly asked question, Professor McGonagall's eyes became misty. He could see the genuine affection in her eyes and hear it in her voice when she spoke of them. She had cared for them, deeply.

"Aye, Mr. Potter, I did." The pain that saturated her voice made the Scottish accent distinguishable. "Two of the greatest students I taught. Your mother was a fabulous witch. Filius was particularly delighted with her Charms work, although Lily was a magnificent student all around. Potions was another favorite of hers. As for your father," her voice took on an exasperated tone, "never had I met such a troublemaker. James and his band of hooligans wreaked absolute havoc during their seven years. But he had talent. He took to Transfiguration as well as he took to a broom. They were Head Boy and Head Girl in their seventh year.

"You look just like James. He had the same untidy hair. Never could get it to lay flat. Not that he cared, mind you. He was always running a hand through it. But your eyes are all Lily's."

A tender smile appeared on Professor McGonagall's face as she talked about his parents. For his part, Harry just smiled; beyond happy to learn about his parents, whose names' he hadn't even known.

"There is something I must tell you, Mr. Potter. You are no ordinary wizard. You're the Boy-Who-Lived: defeater of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You're famous, Mr. Potter."

He didn't like the look in her eyes when she said that. The admiration and respect mixed with grief. Being famous was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to be just him, just Harry. He knew that was an impossible wish though. The Transfiguration professor's words had triggered his memory. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was what they called Voldemort because they were too terrified to use his actual name.

Voldemort was the man he had been fighting in his dream. He was responsible for the green light in the forest.

His brain hurt from trying to put the pieces together. Even if magic was real, his dream was just that. A dream. It shouldn't mean anything. But so far it appeared to be coming true. Did that mean everything he had dreamed would come to pass? Harry desperately wished he could recall more of it.

First, however, he needed conformation that his dream was true.

"Who's He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? How did I beat him? I was just a baby."

Professor McGonagall sighed. "It's a dread tale. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wanted to kill you, so Lily and James went into hiding."

"Kill me? Why?" Harry was baffled. Who tried to kill a baby?

"No one knows why, Mr. Potter. That Halloween night he found you. Your mother and father died to protect you. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named then turned his Killing Curse on you. But you survived and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named disappeared."

The Killing Curse must have been the green light he kept seeing in his dream. Not just the one that didn't make sense. Ever since Harry could remember, he had dreamt about a green flash of light and a cold, chilling laugh. The laugh he couldn't explain, but Aunt Petunia had snapped at him once, when he asked what had happened to his parents that they died in a car crash, so Harry had attributed the green light to a traffic light.

Now he just needed to know if it really was Voldemort she was talking about. "Who was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" the boy pressed.

Professor McGonagall looked at him uncomfortably. "We do not say his name."

"Please, Professor. I need to know," begged Harry.

"Voldemort," was the whispered answer.

The brunette slumped back into the couch, restraining the urge to laugh hysterically. It was true. All of it was true. He had somehow managed to dream the future and he was going to die. Murdered by the man who had killed his parents, a man who he had supposedly already killed.

Maybe he shouldn't go to Hogwarts. If he never went to Hogwarts, he wouldn't encounter Voldemort. Sure, life with the Dursleys wasn't perfect. In fact, it was downright unpleasant, but living with his awful relatives was better than being dead, wasn't it?

"What the devil is going on here, boy? Who is this . . . this . . . _freak _you've let into our home?"

Harry jumped off the couch like it had suddenly been set ablaze. His Uncle sounded angrier than he had yesterday, a feat Harry hadn't thought possible. Professor McGonagall was the more likely source of Vernon's rage, even though he wasn't supposed to be sitting on the couch.

Professor McGonagall stood to her full height of five foot nine, straightening her robes as she did. "You must be Mr. Dursley. I've come to escort young Mr. Potter here to Diagon Alley to get his school supplies."

"No!" Uncle Vernon shouted, spittle flying. "I won't have it! He's not going to that crackpot school of yours. He's attending Stonewall."

The air around the stern woman crackled. "You have no choice in the matter. It is Mr. Potter's decision if he wishes to attend. Which would you prefer? Stonewall or Hogwarts?"

It was a no-brainer. Even if going to Hogwarts meant he would die in the future, there were things in the magical world he couldn't have if he stayed at the Dursleys. Friends of his own. Knowledge of his parents. Two of the things he had craved the most.

Harry felt they were worth whatever the future had in store for him. Besides, maybe, since he had dreamt of it, he could change it.

He gave Professor McGonagall his answer, ignoring how his uncle turned purple with rage. Harry followed her out the door and didn't look back. He didn't belong in the Muggle world. He belonged at Hogwarts, which was more his home than the Dursleys could ever be.


End file.
